


Footprints

by 221Btls



Series: Dear Boy [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Humor, M/M, Sentiment, Sherlock's POV, newlyweds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-03-01 12:27:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2773010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221Btls/pseuds/221Btls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After 25 years of friendship Sherlock and John have only recently fallen in love and gotten married, and now they spend their first Christmas together as a couple.  John loves the holiday and all its traditions, but Sherlock doesn't understand why until they receive a visitor early Christmas morning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Footprints

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a part of the Dear Boy world, but works as a standalone. Though it will be helpful for the reader to know that John and Mary (she is akin to ACD canon) produced a child, Katie, who John raised alone after Mary died when Katie was 2 years old. Sherlock and John now live in a cottage in the Welsh countryside.
> 
> Thank you once again, and always, Burning_Up_A_Sun for your brilliant beta skills! Hugs.
> 
> Footprints is a song from Paul McCartney's album Press to Play.

**Wales**

Rolling away from my husband, I unbutton my night shirt, lift up his t-shirt, and snuggle up against him once again.  I still cannot feel enough of his flesh, despite also resting my cheek on his neck, my hand on his abdomen underneath his shirt, and my feet in between his, but this is minimally better, because I am touching more of him.  _Him._ Not fabric which separates us. 

I have a brilliant idea!  Yes, I know. It is a redundant statement as I am _always_  brilliant.  Let me start again…

I have an idea!  John and I should move to a warmer clime, one where we are free to sleep in the nude without fear of freezing to death.  Australia or Ethiopia, perhaps.   But, alas, I do not think John would be any more inclined to sleep without clothing.  “But what if there is a fire and we have to run out of the cottage, Sherlock?  Do you really want emergency personnel to see you in all your, uh, glory?” He would ask, his eyes straying to the region of my “glory”, his tongue playing with his lips.  It is no matter to me, but as enticing as John is I do not want _his_ glory ogled.  It is mine.  Eyes, and hands, off!

So here I lie, basking in what little I am able to feel of John’s body, listening to him breath.  As the gentle sound washes over me I wonder how I possibly lived for 58 years without it; little makes my life more complete.  Despite this, I cannot sleep.  The mantel clock fills the quiet of the cottage…tick, tick, tick.  It is almost midnight.  Almost Christmas day.  In all my years I have awoken on Christmas day to nothing different from the day before, but for weeks John has been aglow with anticipation.  What he sees in the day, I have no idea.

In case you are wondering, yes, I grew up in a normal family, one who celebrated Christmas.  Well, I say normal… as normal as one would describe a family comprised of myself, an older brother who imagined himself a British spy (“Mycroft!  No you may _not_ eat Christmas dinner in your bedroom, even if you do have a two way radio,” our exasperated mum would tell him.), and parents who everyday acted as if they had met and fallen in love the day before.  Sigh.  The crosses I have had to bear.

Come Christmas time, Mummy dressed the house in a ridiculous costume of fairy lights, evergreens, and ornaments, with noise on the stereo disguised as music.  She and Father would push the sitting room furniture aside and dance, swaying arm in arm, whispering things into each other’s ears, smiling at their secrets.  It is no wonder Mycroft and I were traumatised enough to avoid the holiday as often as possible.  (Please.  Tell no one there are moments I miss those days.) 

Thankfully, in my bachelor years, I could ignore the yearly fiasco, begging off familial, and the rare social, invitations. “No, I shall not be able to attend; Scotland Yard requires my assistance.  Grizzly murder, you know.  So sorry.”  Even the times John would come from his flat downstairs and knock on the door, “Come on, Sherlock, join Katie and me.  We’re having turkey and plum pudding…” he would say, appealing to my sweet tooth, but I would beg off with a cold (“How many bloody Christmases in a row can you have a cold?   Eh, Sherlock?!”) or a case (“Won’t work, Sherlock.  Won’t work.  Greg is in my flat right now.  Now get your arse downstairs!”). 

So as I lie here listening to John, I think maybe, just maybe, now I am married I will discover what it is about the holiday that devolves people’s minds and hearts to sentimental mush.  In the months since first kissing John and then swiftly marrying him, my life has changed in ways I would have previously found inconceivable, giving me reason to believe my life might change in other ways as well.

But it is not to be.  The clock strikes midnight and nothing is different.  Sleep continues to escape me even though I use my favorite variation on counting sheep: using the image of John in my head to count the hairs on his.

I must sate my curiosity. 

Easing myself from John’s side, I tuck the covers around him so he will not get chilled, but as I do, he stirs.  His hand reaches for me, dropping down behind him where there is now an empty space, mumbling something in his half-sleep.  Thankfully he does not fully wake, for I do not want him to know I am on what I consider a fool’s folly. 

“What are you doing, John?”  I had asked him minutes before we went to bed, watching as he set a glass of milk and mince pie onto a small table he had pulled close to the Christmas tree.  Why would he take an evening snack beside the tree? I had wondered.

“Setting out treats for Santa.”  My husband made this extraordinary statement as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world.

Every fiber of my being screaming to tell him mythical figures do not eat food, I stayed silent, instead reminding myself I love my husband…I love my husband…I love my husband…I love my husband.  Not everything needs to be verbalised, John has always said, and somehow I thought that was one of those times.  And just as I was about to burst from the effort of holding back the words that struggled so desperately to leave my lips, John spoke.  I wilted with relief; I try not to mock him, but sometimes it is _so hard._

“When Harry and I were little, Dad used to put the treats and stockings out.  Every Christmas morning when we woke up the milk and pies would be gone and presents would be under the tree; he kept doing it even after we found out there really was no Father Christmas.”  John paused as he hung up a stocking stitched with the name “Sherlock”, his hand poised on the tack as he looked away, lost in his thoughts.  Squaring his shoulders and clearing his throat, he continued speaking.   “When Dad left, Mum was always too drunk to remember Christmas, let alone keep up with the tradition, so Harry and I did it.  It somehow made things a little more normal.  I’ve done it every year since except when I was in the Army.  It just makes me feel…  I don’t know, it feels right somehow even when there are no children about.”

Any thoughts of mocking my most beautiful and perfect husband vanished.  Getting up from my chair, I walked over to where he was finishing with the stockings and wrapped my arms tightly around him, burying my nose and mouth into the crook of his neck; I cannot bear for John to feel sad. 

Folding his arms around mine, John leaned back, resting his head against me.   “I am sorry, John,” I breathed against him, apologising for something over which I had had no control.

“It’s alright, sweetheart,” he said, lacing his fingers with mine.  “It makes me sad sometimes, but I’ve had many years with Katie to make it a happy tradition again.  And now I have you…”  John’s sentence drifted off as he turned, lifting his hands to hold my face, softly kissing my lips.  With a long sigh he pulled away.

“Speaking of having you… let me finish with the stockings and I’ll be ready to go to bed.”   The impish twinkle in his eye set my heart aflutter, and brought another region of me…alive.  (You know about what I am speaking!  I am _not_ going to spell it out for you.  Imbeciles.)

So now I pad out to the sitting room.  I do not need to turn on a lamp, for since John did not turn off the fairy lights on the tree, they wash the room with their multi-color hues.  He finds them romantic.   I find them a poor substitute for proper illumination; who needs a “mood”?   Without crossing the room I see what I fully anticipated - the mince pies and milk sit untouched.  Empty stockings hang lifeless from the mantel and the only presents under the tree are the ones we placed there the last few days, ones we purchased for each other or received in the post.

Going back into the bedroom, I slide under the covers and resume my position, picking up John’s hand up from where it fell, resting it on my hip.

“You alright, love?” 

“Drat,” I curse to myself; I woke him.  “I am fine, John.  Just needed a glass of water.  Go back to sleep.”

“Mmmm hmmm.”   And within moments he breathes evenly again.

I wrap an arm around him, comforting myself.  I have a depth of disappointment in my heart I will never admit; Christmas magic does not exist.  Whispering to John that I love him now and forever, telling him he is the only magic I will ever need, I follow him in slumber.

* * *

 

I awake with a start.  The room is dark and John is not beside me. Where did he go?  Looking at the clock, it reads 1:13.

And then I hear it, the distinct sound of a gun being cocked. 

John!  John is in danger! My heart beats wildly against my ribcage, but thankfully I do not have to look far before I see him re-entering the bedroom from the closet, switching off the light. 

“What is wrong, John?” I loudly whisper across the room; he does not retrieve his weapon in the middle of the night for no reason at all.

Holding his finger up to his lips, John creeps toward the bedroom door. Throwing my feet off the side of the bed I follow him as he opens it just enough to look through it with one eye.  In my rush I bump into him and he turns and hisses at me, “Stay back, you stupid git.  This could be dangerous.”

Hmphh. 

I do not stay back.  Perhaps he has forgotten to whom he is married; when the danger has passed I shall have to remind him.  Preferably with many, many kisses.  Everywhere.

The door creaks as John opens it.  (How would I know why we close the door when we are the only two people who live here!  Now shush.  We are busy!)

With light steps we enter the sitting room, John leading, his gun poised, ready to shoot.  We see nothing, but… a scuffle sounds from the fireplace and chunks of soot fall to the now cold logs below. 

John glances back at me. “What the fuck?” his face plainly reads. (This expression differs from his “What the _fuck_ ” face, the one he gives me when he considers something I have said or done, daft.  Unfortunately, I have been on the receiving end of too many of these looks over the years and have mentally cataloged the precise usage of each time he says “fuck”, whether by word or expression.  He has a surprisingly sizeable number of nuances; it is an entire vocabulary in and of itself.).

I head to the fireplace, but John blocks me with an arm and shakes his head.  Taking the torch from the mantel, he turns it on, and kneeling so he can follow its beam up the chimney, he nearly tips over as he exclaims, “ _You?!_ What the fuck are you doing?!”

“Who is it, John?” 

Looking dazed, John sets back on his heels.

“John?  Who _is_ it?”

 “Uh, nobody,” he finally answers.

“How do you mean, _nobody?_   You obviously saw someone; you talked to them.” 

“You aren’t going to believe it, Sherlock.  Bloody hell, I don’t.” 

Whoever it was, John is so shaken he cannot look at me.  Gripping his shoulders, I ask him again whom it was.  I need to get to the bottom of this; no one rattles my John and gets away with it. 

“John?”  I say, doing my best to calm him with a soothing voice.  “You can tell me.  Is it someone we know?”

Slowly, John turns his head toward me, cobalt blue eyes meeting mine.  “I, uhm…”

Why will he not tell me?

“Uhm, what John?  ‘Uhm’ is not a word, nor the name of anyone I know.  _Who_ was it?”  I loosen my grip on him, realising my fingers pinch into him.  He obviously is traumatised  by who he saw, perhaps even going into shock, and I have no wish to hurt him further.  Tea!  I shall make him tea!

Letting go, I move toward the kitchen, “Chamomile or Earl Grey?” I ask, not waiting for answer.  I need to fix John.

“I saw Santa Claus, Sherlock.”

So quickly do I stop I almost fall over.  Did I hear him right?  I twist to look at him.  The set of John’s face tells me he is not joking.

But…but… the idea of anyone fitting up our chimney, let alone _Santa Claus_ , is absurd.  I must deter him from his descent into madness before he drifts so far into it he will not return.

“And just who was it you saw?  A fat man with a beard, white fur-trimmed red coat, and black shiny boots?  No, John.  That cannot be.”

“Yes,” he answers, his dazed look gone, eyes now clear.  I grow cold; John is deeper in shock than I imagined. 

“No, John,” I say softly.  “It had to be someone dressed up to look like him. A burglar.”

“If it’s a burglar, why would he dress up in a big red suit?  So he can escape faster, Sherlock?  That doesn’t make sense.  Besides, what did he take?” 

I am relieved to hear John looking at the situation from a sensible angle; perhaps he has not gone mad after all. 

I question my own supposition that our intruder intended to steal from us.  My doubt at my initial conclusion grows as I wonder why the laptop lies on the dining table.  Why John’s wedding ring is still at the kitchen sink; he forgot to put it back on after cleaning tree sap off his hands.  Why the hundred pounds I withdrew from the bank sits on the counter.  All items with which to easily abscond, and yet they lay untouched.

I am confused. John is not one to be taken with flights of fancy, certainly not to believe in imaginary figures created for the benefit of children; few are as well-grounded as he.  But I do not have a logical alternative at the moment.

“I do not know, but…” I start to say.

“What the hell?”  John interrupts me, shouting at the ceiling.  With good reason.  It sounds as if dozens of carpenters are pounding their hammers on the roof, a scenario I find very unlikely early on Christmas morning no matter the workers’ views on the holiday. 

I rush to the veranda door; our burglar has not yet made his getaway.  Time yet to apprehend him.  “Bring your gun, John!’”

“Sherlock, you haven’t got any shoes on,” John calls after me.

“No time.”

“WILLIAM SHERLOCK SCOTT HOLMES, _put_ your goddamn shoes on!  There’s snow on the ground,” he bellows, grumbling “stupidest bloody genius I’ve ever seen” under his breath as I race for the bedroom.

Coming back out, I glare at him then look down at my feet.  “Happy now?”

“Yes, love, sorry, so sorry to yell at you.”  John reaches for my hand, seeking forgiveness.  “I happen to like your toes…and your feet.”  Sucking his lower lip into his mouth, he pinches it with his teeth.

Ooohhh, I know what lip biting means. In a response worthy of further Pavlov studies, I bite my own, getting lost in eyes hooded by long lashes.  Thinking about him sucking my toes.  The hands that massaged my foot drifting up my inner thigh to my…

Drawing a shaky breathe, I snap myself out of my reverie.  We have a burglar to catch.

Outside the air is quiet, tranquil in the way it only can be after a fresh snowfall.   Sneaking out from a break in the clouds, the moon’s beams reflect off the snow, lighting our way.  Still, John shines the torch on the ground before us, searching for our visitor’s path, but circling the house, we find no footprints.  No footprints?  Even if the burglar has not come back down to make his escape, surely he arrived here in some manner. It started snowing early in the evening; he could not have been hiding in the cottage the whole time.  Or could he?  I do not know if it is that possibility or the cold which makes me shiver.

“Go get your coat, honey, you’re freezing.”   John looks no less chilled than I, his arms wrapped around himself, brusquely rubbing them; his teeth chattering.   I am touched by his concern; he is as uncomfortable as I, yet his thought is only for me. 

Wasting no time, I plant a kiss on his cheek and rush into the house to retrieve our coats.  I do not want to leave my beloved husband alone too long; the thought of him in danger leaves me colder than any frosty air and freezing feet.

“Thank you, love.”  John’s eyes warm with appreciation when I return.  I do not think he thought I would bring his, too.  Though I do not always get it right, I am learning to think not only of myself.  Because of John.  Only because of John. 

I grab the ladder inclined against the shed, tip it against the cottage, and start to climb up.  John tugs at my coat, stopping me, and tucks the gun into the back the jeans he took the time to put on.  “Let me go first.”

Following John up the ladder, I do not rue one particular change in my life since first kissing him, my reduced capacity to focus.  Ever since our first kiss I find I have difficulty concentrating on anything.  Anything but John, that is.  And as we climb the ladder, though we could be in mortal danger, for a few moments there is little I can think of but the arse in front of me.  Oh how I enjoy being married! 

As lovely as John’s arse is, a startling sound in the air above us distracts me.  The sound of bells.  Sleigh bells. 

“John!  What do you see?”  He has reached the roof before me.  What is going on?!  First someone one in our chimney, then the pounding on our roof.  Now bells?!  Perhaps I am having a nightmare, one from which I will gladly wake.  Unless…  Is there a dead body on our roof? I tremble with anticipation; that would be the best Christmas present I could ever receive.

“Nothing, Sherlock.  Absolutely…nothing.”

No dead body.  I almost weep with disappointment.

Assisting me, John makes sure I join him safely on the roof, not an easy proposition given the snow beneath our feet.  Standing atop our cottage, all we see is the chimney.   No fat man in a red suit.  No carpenters.  (No dead body!  Hmphh.)  Did they/he come back down in the time we went up? 

Though we see no one, we do see something of interest.  A great scuffle of snow, two parallel lines tracking through it, and footprints leading from the chimney to the tracks.  Curiously, none of these reach close to the roof edge.  It is almost as if…as if whoever was on the roof was lifted off.   How could that possibly be?  Helicopter?  But no, not unless instead of a motor and blades it used sleigh bells for lift off.  I roll my eyes at my own whimsy. 

“Sherlock?  What do you make of this?”  John asks, shining his beam at the disturbed snow.

I am stumped; this is more challenging than any locked room murder I ever solved.  Taking my magnifier out of my coat pocket, I peer at the roof.  Snow, a few twigs and leaves (normal), some smattering of soot which is only logical as the mystery person climbed back up the chimney. No footprints leading back to the chimney.  It is baffling in its bafflement. 

Again I utter the one phrase I will not say to anyone but John.  “I do not know.” 

Large flakes of snow start to swirl gently around us, and knowing we will not soon solve the mystery of our intruder, at least not tonight, we stop to look out at the valley, the landscape lit with the bright lights of the season.  It is so quiet we can almost hear the snow fall. 

John puts his arm around my waist, leaning into me as I wrap my own around him, my lips pressing a tender kiss atop his head.   “It’s beautiful, isn’t it,” he says, his tone hushed.  And for several minutes we stand here, oblivious to the cold, warmed by the beauty around us.  By the love we have for each other.  (Really?  Did I just think that?  No wonder they call it ‘lovesick’.  Pffft.)

“Let’s get back inside; I don’t want you to catch pneumonia,” John says, disentangling himself.  I take a last look around the roof, resigned for the moment that we may never know what happened here.  Take one last look at the pastoral scene beyond the cottage before I follow him. 

Once inside, both of us too wide awake to think about sleep, John boils water for tea and I gather the throw from the back of the sofa.  When he brings two steaming mugs of tea to the sofa, I share the throw with him and silently we sit, reflecting on the odd events of the last hour.

And that is when we notice. 

The glass of milk has but a few drops left in it.  The mince pie is gone, leaving only crumbs.  And a small, gift-wrapped box which was not there when I came into the room at midnight, sits under the tree.

Puzzled, I go pick it up and sit back down with John, covering myself back up with the throw, my thigh pressed against his.  Adorned in gold foil paper with a red bow, on it is a tag: To Sherlock and John.  Happy Christmas.  Santa.

“Did you do this?”  I ask John, twirling the box with my fingers to find what clues it holds, but he shakes his head, looking as mystified as me. 

The man in the red suit, the tracks and sleigh bells, the footprints.  Could it be…could it be true?  Could there really be a Santa Claus?  No, there cannot be.  But what other explanation is there?

“Look to see what it is, honey.”  John nods at the box, urging me to open it.

The ribbon unravels with ease, and it takes me but a moment to tear the paper free.  Opening the box I lift out what appears to be a Christmas ornament.  At the end of a hook is a small, framed picture, the bottom at which is engraved the words ‘Our First Christmas’.  And the picture?  It is a coloured drawing of me and John in the flat at Baker St. decorating a Christmas tree, looking very much as we did the first year we met. 

With a sting in my eyes and a flutter in my chest, I think back to that very first year.  This is our first Christmas as a married couple, but those many years ago was our true first Christmas together, the first we were Sherlock and John, friends and flatmates, not fully realising the depth of our bond or what we would come to mean to each other. 

“Sherlock…” John breathes, as touched as I by the sight before us. 

Our eyes meeting, John’s are moist and he sniffs, blinking back his tears. He knows, as I, that the picture on the ornament is how we should always have been.  Living together.  Loving each other.  But life had other plans.

John takes the ornament from my hand and together we go back to the tree as he hangs it on a branch, the honeyed glow of tree lights adding, if possible, more warmth to the picture.

When John turns back to me, I cradle his face in my hands, my eyes roaming over every feature I have held dear for so long, knowing it is not possible to love anyone or anything more than I love _him._

“I love you,” I tell him, lowering my mouth to that which is eager for mine, the one telling me that I too am loved beyond measure.   And as we kiss, our lips, our tongues, our sighs, reaffirming the deep love we have for each other, I know that whether or not there is a Santa, this, _this_ , is the magic of Christmas.  Being with the ones you love.  The tree filling the room with light, the Christmas music quietly playing on the radio, I cannot help but wonder why I always felt so derisive of this particular day. 

Just as my parents did all those years ago, my husband and I hold each other and sway to the music, murmuring words of love, sharing memories, laughing softly.  Pledging to never, ever, take each other for granted.  It took too many years to find _us_ ; we will not waste one more precious moment. 

* * *

 

**London**

A smile lifts the ends of Mycroft’s mouth as he turns off the monitor, murmuring to his empty study, “Happy Christmas, dear brother,” and replaces the CCTV remote control he holds in his hand with his mobile.

**_Exceptional work.  Expect a generous bonus in your stocking this year._ **

_Anything else, Sir?_

**_No.  Now go home and be with your family.  Happy Christmas, Anthea._ **

_Happy Christmas, Sir._

Sighing, Mycroft picks up the tumbler sitting beside his chair, taking a sip before he rejoins Greg in bed, gratified he was able to give Sherlock something he missed out on when he was young.  Such a precocious child.  But as Mycroft is about to rise from his chair, the mobile rings.  Who can it be at this late hour?  Looking down at the screen his brows lift in surprise.

“Sherlock.  This is unexpected…and a Happy Christmas to you…Yes, yes, of course you and John are still welcome for Christmas dinner; bring Katie as well.  The more the merrier.”

“I love you, too,” the elder brother whispers to himself as he disconnects the call, knowing that, as wondrous as Christmases have been since Greg has been has been in his life, this just may be the best one he’s had since his parents passed.

* * *

 

**Wales**

Giving me a kiss as I set my mobile down, John tells me, “Go back to bed sweetheart, I’ll be right in.” 

Whilst reluctant to leave his side, I do as asked.  I will do anything for John.

He comes into the bedroom carrying the largest present from under the tree.  It has no tag, but I know it is for me.  As much as I love presents, I am quite content and have no need for anything more, but my lovely husband persists.

“Go on, open it.”  John looks so excited you would think it was for him. 

With little decorum I rip the wrapping off, and as I realise what he has given me…us… I smile at him with unfettered delight, happy to know I no longer need to ponder moving from the comfort of our cottage.  For what the wrapping holds is an electric blanket.  (I do not know why I did not think of this before; I am supposed to be the “genius”.  Too often my husband proves me wrong.)

Faster than I can say “chloramphenicol” the blanket is on the bed, plugged in, and John and I are snuggled under the covers…warm and _naked_!  Everywhere I touch, all I feel is John’s flesh.  John, _my_ John. 

 _He_ is the best present I have ever had.

Or ever will. 


End file.
